


Barbs in Your Hand

by voleuse



Category: Alias
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-09
Updated: 2006-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-04 07:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>A genius for being agreeable. Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous discards.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Barbs in Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

> Set between S2 and S3. Title and summary adapted from William Stafford's _What's in My Journal_.

Her meeting with Ways and Means is cancelled last-minute. Instead, Lauren finds herself with a rare three days off, barring war, terrorist attack, or rare archaeological discoveries.

It's in the middle of the week, and she calls Michael at his office in the university. He answers on the second ring, and she laughs when he identifies himself as "Modern Languages, Michael Vaughn."

"That's quite a title," she replies, and he chuckles.

"What's up?" She can hear his chair creak as he leans against his desk. "Aren't you in DC?"

"Not for long," she says. "Are you still going to that conference in Paris?"

"My flight leaves in three hours."

"Why don't I meet you there?"

*

 

Her plane lands seven hours after his does, but Michael meets her at the gate.

He kisses her and takes her carry-on suitcase. "The baggage claim is--"

"Really, Michael," she interrupts. "I didn't expect to need many _clothes_."

He blinks, and then a wicked grin blossoms across his face. "I love you," he says.

"I know." She slips an arm around his waist and looks away. "I love you, too."

*

 

While the conference itself is near the airport, Michael's university is paying for the hotel room. They're in a taxi for an interminable time.

To save time, the driver takes them through a less than savory district, upscale in appearance, but refuge for elements of organized crime.

Michael stares out the window, and at one point, she reaches out, touches his hand.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks. She's genuinely curious.

"Nothing." He shakes his head, but keeps watch on the clubs and restaurants flashing by. "Ancient history."

She knows he's lying, knows from legitimate sources as well as not. A part of her wants to point it out.

Instead, she squeezes his fingers, and leans against his shoulder.

He sighs, and turns to kiss her forehead.

*

 

While Michael's in the loo, Lauren sheds her jacket, stretches out her legs on the bed.

Her cell phone rings, and it's her mother. "Where are you?" she queries without preamble.

Lauren stifles a sigh. "In a hotel room in Paris. Michael has a conference."

A moment of silence, and Lauren can guess the variables clicking through her mother's head.

"All right," she finally says. "I'll call you if you're needed."

"Of course," Lauren replies, and rings off.

Michael emerges, patting his face with a towel. "Who was that?"

"My mother." She tosses her cell into her purse. "You'd think I was still in academy."

"Past your curfew?" he jokes, and pulls his jacket back on. "I, uh. There's an opening panel--"

"Tonight?" She slides back onto the bed, pouts. "Surely you can miss it."

He hesitates, and she likes the way his gaze slips from her face, to her legs, and all the way up again.

"Michael," she murmurs. "Please."

He drops his jacket, and steps forward to kiss her.

Against his lips, she smiles.

*

 

The next morning, they eat croissants and jam with their coffee. She has him read the newspaper to her in French.

She understands it all, of course, but she likes to hear him speak the language. She leans against him, smells his cologne.

He's late for his first meeting that day, but if he doesn't mind, neither does she.


End file.
